


Just Another Night

by captainshellhead, vibraniumstark



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Book 6: Tongues of Serpents, Bottom Tharkay, Friends With Benefits, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:09:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5613469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainshellhead/pseuds/captainshellhead, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibraniumstark/pseuds/vibraniumstark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins on the Allegiance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [malfaisant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/gifts).



A fine sheen of sweat has settled on Laurence’s skin; what little shade they have inside is no match for the unforgiving midday sun. Tharkay watches the subtle rise and fall of his chest for a moment. He could easily reach out, trace the ridges of Laurence’s spine from his neck to his tailbone, brushing gentle touches across his tanned skin. 

Laurence dozes next to him, his face peaceful. The heat is overwhelming, stifling not only by sheer scorching temperatures, but by the brutal lack of any cooling breeze. For Tharkay it is nothing new; the desert is an unforgiving place, and the scorching sun is no stranger to him. Laurence is not so accustomed to the heat, and their exertion has sapped from him what remaining energy the sun had failed to drain.

His hair has come somewhat loose from it’s tight queue, stray strands sticking to his cheek and neck. Tharkay reaches out to brush them aside, idly. Laurence makes a soft noise at his touch, huffs a pleased breath, and Tharkay cannot quell the swell of affection in his breast.

Laurence shifts, rubs his face against the linens, and sighs once more. He cracks one eye to look at Tharkay, and Tharkay pulls his hand away.

“I should return to my own quarters,” he says suddenly, quietly.

Tharkay pushes himself to his feet and turns his back on the room, collecting his coat with more care than the action requires. He sees the uncertain twist of Laurence’s lips only from the corner of his eye, and attempts to better master himself. 

“If you would be more comfortable,” Laurence says mildly. Tharkay only nods and hastily jerks his coat on despite the heat, as though somehow the extra layers might shield him from Laurence’s searching gaze.

 

 

It begins on the Allegiance. 

Though the men furl the sail, it can hardly be called a storm—more appropriately a persistent and cold drizzle which would have been easily avoided under the cover of Temeraire’s wing were it not for the erratic gusts which had accompanied the little storm cell. The wind whips the rain sideways in all directions, and the men grumble as their attempts to stay are dry unsuccessful. 

Tharkay has until this point been assisting the aviators in tending to the dragons. The weather is not fierce enough to warrant using the storm chains, for which both Temeraire and Iskierka are quite thankful. Iskierka has settled herself upon what she has declared is the most comfortable position on the deck, directly above the kitchens where the ovens can warm the floor beneath her. 

Temeraire, as a result, has settled for the somewhat-cooler deck next to her, delicately arranging himself to best ward off the chill without having to give in to the indignity of pressing against Iskeirka’s warm side. 

He holds his wing half-uncurled, so that it can provide Laurence at least some shelter. Laurence is speaking lowly to him, but from where Tharkay stands he cannot hear what he is saying. Temeraire leans low, curling around to nose at Laurence’s side. 

“Would you not be more comfortable inside, where it is warmer?” Temeraire asked. “Of course I am not cold, I am quite comfortable where I am. Only you are shivering, and your coat is quite wet—”

Laurence shakes his head and murmurs something else with a small, placating smile. 

Tharkay cannot say he blames him. He had seen the state of Laurence’s quarters, and he would not wish that upon anyone. While the room may be more pleasant than the cells of the prison ship, the noise and smell is hard to escape within the bowels of the ship. It may be cold up upon the deck, but Tharkay is certain that down near Laurence’s quarters the cool rain has done them no favors. Certainly it would only make the space all the more damp and unpleasant, and by no means the type of place one would wish to go to.

Well, Tharkay can do something about that, at least. 

He crosses the deck before he can think better of it, ducking beneath Temeraire’s wing to join them. Temeraire gives him a peculiar look, seeming somewhat self-satisfied as though he knows already what Tharkay is about to offer and is certain he can sway Laurence to accept. 

Tharkay lays a hand on Laurence’s arm, the fabric damp beneath his fingers, and Laurence turns toward him. His cheeks are flushed slightly from the chill, his hair having somehow managed to stay perfectly fixed even in the rain. 

“I apologize if I’m interrupting. I believe that they can manage well enough without us on deck,” he begins. “My quarters are quite nice, if you would care to join me.”

“He would,” Temeraire says, nudging Laurence off-balance so that he took one step toward the ladder leading below deck. 

Laurence made to protest, but Tharkay only raises an eyebrow.

“Surely you do not think so low of me that you would prefer to remain on deck to freeze rather than suffer my company,” Tharkay says teasingly. Laurence spins to look at him, affronted.

“Of course not!” The barb works as well as Tharkay had known it would. “Honestly, I am not about to catch my death in such a light drizzle,” he says. He pauses for a moment, and Tharkay says nothing, letting Laurence reach his decision on his own. “But very well. You are very kind.”

“It is no trouble,” Tharkay assures him.

Laurence trails along after Tharkay. As a prisoner, this section of the ship is, technically, forbidden to him. They hardly run into anyone along their way, however, and though they do get some looks, they make it to Tharkay’s room unmolested.

Tharkay briefly regrets not planning ahead. His room is tidy, but bare, and hardly appropriate for entertaining. He has only one chair, which he offers to Laurence before moving to seat himself upon the chest at the foot of his bed. Laurence is too polite to mention it, or perhaps simply understanding of the limited space allowed aboard a ship.

Tharkay offers to share his dinner, which Laurence declines, and a measure of rum to warm him, which he accepts a little more readily. His damp coat is uncomfortable, and with the door closed, away from prying eyes, it does not take long for the coat and boots to be shed and spread flat to dry. The plain coat was nothing near the quality of an aviator’s coat, and the rain has thoroughly done him in—the shirt beneath it is soaking wet as well. 

The smile Laurence sends his way is a little crooked, somewhat apologetic, when he stops to peel of the shirt. Tharkay tears his eyes away a moment too late, in time to see Laurence’s expression falter, caught between surprise and uncertainty. 

“Is this all right?” he asks, after a long moment. The soaked fabric is already hung over one hand, making the question superfluous, but Tharkay grabs onto the chance to turn aside under the pretense of seeking out a new shirt for him. 

He can feel Laurence watching him, but fully expects Laurence to carry on as normal. When instead Laurence touches him on the side, bidding him to turn back around, Tharkay nearly jumps in surprise. 

He fixes Tharkay with a serious, searching look, and Tharkay stares stubbornly back, lips already quirking in an attempt at humor, but he isn’t quite sure he manages it under Laurence’s searching gaze, and anything that he might say escapes him. 

Whatever Laurence is looking for, he seems to find it; his expression relaxes at the same time his shoulders straighten, rallying himself. 

That’s all the warning he gets, before Laurence kisses him. 

It’s not a lover’s kiss. That is, perhaps, the only indication Tharkay gets that he is not wholly imagining this. Laurence kisses as he’s always guiltily imagined he might. With purpose, he crowds Tharkay back toward the bed, nips lightly at Tharkay’s lip and soothes the sting with his tongue. The motion sends a jolt of pleasure straight through him, drawing a soft noise from him. Laurence hums lowly at the sound, pleased, and Tharkay nearly expires on the spot. 

Tharkay is the first to break the kiss, and Laurence leans back obligingly. 

“If I’ve misstepped—” he begins, looking suddenly uncertain, and Tharkay rushes to silence him with another short, heated kiss. 

“You _haven’t_ ,” he says, and Laurence pulls him in again gladly. 

One hand finds Tharkay’s jaw, strong but not holding him there, and with the other he’s pushing Tharkay backwards, the ends of the cot cutting into his calves. Tharkay takes a moment to master himself before he lets Laurence push him down fully, and then, not one to be outdone, makes a go for Laurence’s trousers. 

Tharkay presses one palm against Laurence’s stomach, the other palm circles Laurence’s length. It draws a breathy noise from him, not quite a gasp, but as though he had for a moment forgotten whether to inhale or exhale. 

Laurence isn’t looking at him, his eyes fixed on Tharkay’s hand between them, and Tharkay takes the opportunity to stare. Laurence’s eyes, half lidded, flutter with every small motion of Tharkay’s hand, his lips parted and soft. It is an image Tharkay presses into his mind, uncertain of his chances of ever seeing it again, as he flicks a thumb experimentally over the tip. Tharkay studies his expression, that open vulnerability that washes over his face, closes his eyes for a moment, and commits it to memory.

Laurence’s chest heaves, his fists bunching in the linens of Tharkay’s bed, and yet he is blessedly silent, the only noise escaping his lips coming as soft gasps and moans, quiet as a whisper. 

He wonders at how excellently Laurence stays silent, a long-ingrained habit with what little privacy the thin walls provide, and kisses him. Tharkay flicks his wrist and drags Laurence’s length through his calloused hand, swallowing any noise he makes against his lips.

It’s not a lovers kiss, but Tharkay has never been in a position to barter. Laurence makes him no promises, only kisses him fondly, touches him reverently. Tharkay knows he should not expect this to be anything more than a source of relief for the both of them. He will take what Laurence will give him, and be glad of it. 

 

He half expects that to be the end of it.

Instead, he finds himself in an unusual position—or many unusual positions, if he’s being facetious. That week, Laurence pulls him aside no less than four times, despite the relative lack of privacy, and his position on the ship.

Tharkay is somewhat surprised that Laurence seems no more interested in discussing the nature of their relationship than he is himself, though Tharkay knows that this must be due to a lack of gravity placed on their coupling than his own fear of sabotaging what may already be a fragile thing.

It seems that there are things Tharkay has to learn about Laurence yet. 

Laurence, for his part, seems to enjoy himself, and treats Tharkay no differently than he had before, except perhaps in the quiet moments after, where he has not quite regained his senses. In return, Tharkay does his best not to take advantage of the quiet affection Laurence displays, nor to draw meaning where there is none. 

Instead, he takes his satisfaction where he can get it and is careful not to ask for more than Laurence would readily give. He learns to be more prepared: a tin of oil, innocuous, on the nightstand, a towel draped over the chair. When they arrive finally at New South Wales and Laurence gives no indication of wanting to put an end to their relationship, he lets himself relax into their newfound relationship. 

It is more than Tharkay had dared to hope for, and he learns to swallow down the knot in his throat when Laurence touches him, smiles at him, a play at intimacy that he will never quite have, and to be satisfied with what he is given. 

He still has moments, when Laurence is pressed against his side, warm and sated, that he finds himself fraught with feelings for him. It's harder, then, to distract himself from the sentimental thoughts that come to him, and it’s times like these that Tharkay is sure to make a hasty escape. If Laurence is bothered by his leaving, or Tharkay's avoidance of him thereafter, he makes little indication. Tharkay takes that to mean that he's doing the right thing. 

 

They lie in Laurence’s less-than-desirable quarters in the covert, having retired late in an attempt to make good use of the somewhat less insufferable temperatures that nighttime affords them. 

Laurence has him on his back, pressing his weight down on him as he trails kisses down his chest. They are both of them stripped bare, as much to battle the heat as out of any urgency, and Laurence takes his good sweet time, trailing down, down. 

Tharkay’s breath hitches as Laurence skims his teeth over his hipbone, follows the line of his hip down, placing sloppy kisses in his wake. Tharkay watches enraptured, leaning up on his elbows. When he tries to protest his leisurely pace Laurence only shushes him.

Laurence grips his hips firmly and lowers his mouth on him, and it is only by the grace of his hold that Tharkay does not jerk at the sensation. He cannot help the breathy noise that escapes him, and Laurence’s eyes flicker up to look at him. Laurence’s gaze is burning in its intensity; he meets Tharkay’s eyes and swallows him whole.

Tharkay clenches his teeth to keep from crying out, but cannot still his hips, thrusting involuntarily up into the wet heat of Laurence’s mouth. Laurence makes a sound, not displeased, and flattens his tongue along the base of Tharkay’s cock.

His hand goes to Laurence’s hair, and Laurence hums his approval. Tharkay grips harder as Laurence settles into a rhythm. It is too much, all at once, and Tharkay cannot restrain himself; the pitch of his breathing takes on a higher, more desperate note, urging him on, until his breath catches and without any further warning, takes him over the edge.

Tharkay flushes deeply, everything soft and slow as he rides the feeling to completion. Laurence crawls further up the bed, swiping the back of his hand across his lips, and then leans up to kiss him.

Laurence has not finished, Tharkay realizes. He gathers himself and leans up on his elbows, but Laurence just mumbles a quiet “No” and urges him to lie back. He bends and kisses Tharkay’s slack lips, his jaw, his ear. 

“Turn over,” he says, his voice queer and oddly breathless. 

Tharkay is not certain he has the energy to do even that—he’s not certain his heart can take it—but desire curls low in his gut regardless.

Laurence settles over him, nudges his legs a little further apart with his knees, and leans down to press a kiss to the base of Tharkay’s spine.

The cool slick of oil feels good against his overwarm skin, and his breath hitches as he presses his finger slowly inside. Laurence mutters something soothing, stroking Tharkay’s hip with his thumb, but he can hardly make sense of the words, too focused on the sensation as Laurence works him open slowly.

He had thought he was thoroughly spent, but Tharkay’s cock stirs at his gentle touches. Everything feels overly sensitive, every small touch a new torture. Laurence is curling his finger and sliding in and out to add more oil, until he is clinging desperately to the bedsheets, breathing harshly and forcing himself to remain still.

Laurence crooks his fingers, and the pleasure that shoots through him drags a ragged moan from his lips. He presses back desperately, but Laurence pulls away altogether. He chuckles softly at the frustrated noise Tharkay makes.

Laurence pressed in unbearably slowly, holding Tharkay’s hips firmly, drawing every inch from him with infuriating gentleness. Tharkay feels wrung out and exposed when finally Laurence can sink no further, slick skin pressed together. He pants and holds himself still, allowing Tharkay to adjust to the sensation.

“Tenzing,” Laurence says, softly, his forehead pressed against the nape of Tharkay’s neck. The quality of his voice causes Tharkay to flush warmly, “Is this all right?”

Tharkay nods; he cannot hold still any longer, hips rocking back against him.

“Please,” he says, and Laurence moves with him this time, blessedly.

The first movements are overwhelming; he did not know what noise me made, but it took several strokes to recover his rhythm, Laurence giving him every inch, gripping his hips hard and grinding deeper when Tharkay attempts to gather his knees beneath him, until he is panting, insensible.

Tharkay arches his back and rocks back hard with each thrust, biting his bottom lip to keep from crying out. He focuses on the feeling, focuses on the sound of Laurence’s strained breathing. Tharkay pushes back hard, forcing Laurence deeper, and it is Laurence's startled moan as much as the wash of pleasure through him that sets him over the edge. Laurence’s hips stutter as Tharkay tenses around him, and he makes a harsh, breathy sound, halfway to a sob, and stills.

Tharkay drifts for a moment, eyes closed, until Laurence’s hand brushes against his cheek. He stirs partially to wakefulness, and Laurence tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, a small smile on his lips.

 _Smug_ is not a word Tharkay would often associate with Laurence, but he looks it now, drawing one hand feather-light down the length of Tharkay’s torso to rest on his hip. After a moment Laurence leans forward, pressing the barest of kisses against Tharkay’s temple, so tender that Tharkay cannot bear even to look. His eyes flutter shut, his breath catches in his throat. He feels he may already be dreaming.

“Sleep,” Laurence says, the barest of whispers. He leans over him, to the candle flickering weakly to Tharkay’s right, and blows out the light.

 

 

It is abysmally early,the sky still fully dark, when Tenzing steps outside. Gong Su, at least, is awake and preparing breakfast, so Tharkay pays him a visit and comes away with a cup of weak English tea and a cold bun from the night before.

He sets both on the tiny desk in his quarters, drops into the chair beside it, and wills himself not to imagine the ghost of a warm arm thrown over him. He’d woken with Laurence pressed all the way along his side, his warm breath feathering against Tharkay’s throat with every exhale. He’s certain that he’d never been more comfortable, nor wanted to stay anywhere more.

It had taken him a long ten minutes to carefully remove himself from Laurence’s embrace. Tharkay was no glutton for that particular brand of punishment, and what he desires and what he can realistically have are so far removed from each other that he has no choice but to put more distance between them. To do any less would be to give himself false hope.

Tharkay’s door swings open without a knock to warn him, and he only just restrains himself from startling as the sound slices through his thoughts, disconnecting them. There is a brief moment, where Tharkay stares uncomprehending at Laurence in the doorway and Laurence, likewise, seems to realize his uncharacteristic rudeness in this occasion.

Tharkay give him a crooked smile, falling back on sarcasm when all other thought for an appropriate response has abandoned him.

“Will,” he says, “would you like to come in?”

It is, apparently, the opening Laurence has been waiting for. He swings the door shut behind him with some force—frustrated, then, though Tharkay doesn’t have the faintest idea why—and turns back to fix Tharkay with a look.

“You didn’t stay,” he says, confoundingly. Whatever response Tharkay thought he might have leaves him at the unexpected statement, so that all he can think to say in response is the truth.

“Did you expect me to?” he asks. Tharkay sees immediately that it is the wrong thing to say. Laurence looks briefly stricken, then abashed and frustrated again in turn. He hastens to add, “I wasn’t aware it would be welcome.”

“I _invited you_ to stay,” Laurence reminds him. “So do not pretend that I would not have welcomed it.”

“The act, perhaps, though not the intention,” Tharkay says, before he can think better of it. He will have the truth, and perhaps Laurence will put an end to their arrangement, but at least he will understand. Tharkay stands, anxious and not quite willing to make this admission on such unequal footing.

Despite his instincts, he forces himself to look Laurence in the eye. Laurence stares at him in confusion and worry, though no longer frustration, and Tharkay isn’t certain which he would prefer.

“Though I would never wish to end our... arrangement, I must admit that I have been less than forthcoming on the matter of my feelings toward you. It was simpler to leave than to pretend at a relationship that doesn’t exist; I cannot help but desire more that you wish to give.”

Laurence stares at him for a long moment before he finds his voice.

“If I’ve at any point led you to believe—“

“I am aware that you do not feel similarly,” Tharkay interrupts, more waspish than he’d intended. “You needn’t devise a way to let me down gently.”

“Tenzing,” Laurence says, sounding both angry and soft in a way that only he could. “It appears that I have not been clear in my intentions. I want everything that you are willing to give me, and to give in return.”

Tharkay stops, feeling his heart creep to his throat, and the soft fondness in Laurence’s gaze near chokes him. He can scarcely find the words to respond.

“You—never said,” Tharkay says, taken aback by the sincerity in his voice.

“I had assumed that it did not _need_ to be said,” Laurence sighed, shoulders dropping from their defensive position as he composed himself. “That was my mistake.” 

He stepped forward a half-step, into Tharkay’s space, their noses nearly brushing, and when Laurence placed a hand on Tharkay’s waist, Tharkay found it simple to react in kind and rest his hands behind Laurence’s neck, the fingers just lace at the tips. 

This, at least, was familiar, if he pressed down the hammering of his heart, and the treacherous part of his brained that reminded him, familiar, yes, but entirely different in meaning. Many of their nights together had started like this, but the tenderness in Laurence’s gaze, the soft touches and trailing kisses had never seemed so significant, but simply a consequence of Laurence’s good character. 

Now, Tharkay couldn’t imagine how he hadn’t seen Laurence’s regard for him sooner, except maybe through willful blindness, a last attempt at defending himself from what he thought would be the inevitable heartbreak. 

When Laurence leaned in to brush his lips over Tharkay’s, the motion so full of purpose and promise, Tharkay did not try to push back the elated swell in his chest and kissed him back soundly. It wasn’t their first kiss by any means, but it felt like a new beginning, regardless.


End file.
